


For Saints Have Hands

by BlossomsintheMist



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Affection, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, F/M, Intimacy, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mindwiping, Nightmares, Touching, face touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 08:24:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3168125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlossomsintheMist/pseuds/BlossomsintheMist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha often touches Bucky's face.  An exploration of this habit, through the years--and what it means to both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Saints Have Hands

1\.  The first time she kisses him, she runs her fingers back over cheeks rough with stubble and a little raw from wind and cold, back into curling brown hair that clings to her fingers, and keeps her eyes open as their lips touch, even though his close behind the mask, and he sucks in his breath, his lips part.  He leans forward a little, but does not deepen the kiss, so she takes his cheeks and pulls him into her, giving him permission.

She hadn’t thought the Winter Soldier would be this tentative at first—but she likes it, the way she also likes his warm, impetuous passion now that their mouths are open to each other.

2\.   Her fingers just barely graze the glass.  It feels like ice, almost burns her skin with cold, even through her gloves.  His face is still, he doesn’t answer.  (He couldn’t even if he woke, the mask that keeps him breathing sees to that.)

She puts her hand over her mouth.  The world spins around her.  She feels like she might be sick.

She just wanted to touch him.  One more time would be enough.

What has she done.

3\.   She touches his face, traces the structure of his clean-shaven cheek, the curve of his jaw, runs her thumb over his skin.  He looks older, she thinks, eyes both bright and dark, but the warm eager rush of his kiss is the same, and he still closes his eyes, his chest swelling with a breath as if his whole body is focusing in on the kiss despite the way he almost hangs back.  She follows his cheekbone, his jaw, with her fingers, up to his forehead, learning, memorizing, the planes of his face.

She gets to touch him again.

Much more than one time.

4\.  “You always do that,” James says, with a slight smile, almost laughing.

“Hmm?” Natasha asks, looking up at him and smiling herself.  “What?”

He covers her hand with his, looks down at her with such fondness, warm and a little sheepish, that she feels her heart swell in her chest, her throat thicken.  “Touch my face,” he says, and squeezes her fingers, just slightly.  “Just before you kiss me … .”

She smiles, thinking back.  “Maybe I do,” she says, and thinks.  Maybe she does, often, though not always.  “Maybe I like to feel you,” she says, and leans in to touch their lips together again.

5\.   His breath is rasping in his throat, quavering though he’s kept himself silent enough that it doesn’t whimper.  He’s wet with cold sweat, all over, and he flinches when she gets her arm under him, lets him lean on her, tugs him down into it.  “You’re a mess,” she tells him, and when he starts to speak, to say, “I know,” shushes him.  “Quiet,” she says, and pushes his damp hair back off his face.  “Be still.”  She lets her fingers linger over his cheek, though, because at least he is alive.  At least she can touch him.  He leans forward into it, nuzzles slightly into the touch, and leaves a kiss against her gloved palm, closing his eyes, just for a moment.

6\.   “Who are you?” she asks the dark-haired man with sad eyes.  He looks so familiar.  He’s handsome, in a boyish way, attractive though somewhat nondescript.  He has the solid, athletic build, the way of moving that makes her think he is a spy.  He reminds her of the Red Room but she doesn’t know why.  She feels her lips go flat.  She steps forward, takes his chin in her hand.

She knows those eyes.  “Who  _are you_?” she demands and doesn’t even realize she’s slipped into Russian until she hears her own voice.

That never happens.

He flinches away and doesn’t meet her eyes.  The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach tells her that something is wrong.

She reaches out and touches his cheek, and he pulls away as if he’s been burned, and she wonders what is wrong with her, she’s not one to invade a stranger’s space like that, not when he’s already pulled back, and— 

“I can’t tell you that,” he said, and still won’t meet her eyes.

“So I’ll find someone who will,” she says, and her voice comes out sharp, determined, but steady.


End file.
